


The Crack In The Bell

by lightningmcqueendean



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alexander is non-stop, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Industrial Revolution, F/M, George takes care of him like a good bro, Historical Inaccuracy, John is a good son, M/M, Moments of violence, Period-Typical Homophobia, Undercover Work, at first anyway, everyone is alive but admittedly not very happy, newpapers, poor treatment of factory workers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-29
Updated: 2016-12-07
Packaged: 2018-09-03 02:34:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,365
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8693005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lightningmcqueendean/pseuds/lightningmcqueendean
Summary: Henry looked at his son and leaned against the front of his desk, examining his shot glass, "Can I count on you to not only protect this company, which will one day be yours, but your family name?" John desperately wanted to say 'hell no, father' and run out of there. He'd even admit that he'd rather read the boring book his father had given him...but one cannot refuse such a request from their father, could they? He had to protect his family name, as corrupted as it was."Yes, sir."





	1. Epilogue: Slandering The Good Name

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is set during the American Industrial Revolution in the 19th Century. It was a random idea prompted by a history project and I figured "hmm why not" and I will let you know now that this is fairly inaccurate but I attempted to follow the outline of the century at this point.
> 
> kudos to my bois Katie and Storm for continuously reading over each chapter and critiquing me and helping me out, this is for them

It was an overcast day, fog clinging to the dirty streets and the hems of coats and skirts and making the city bleak and gray. The dreary clouds hung low, drooping with tears they had yet to shed. 

Young Master John Laurens sat at his desk by his bedroom window, observing the common folk as they bustled along the busy city sidewalks. A mother tried to keep up with her rambunctious toddler. Two workers, from a factory according to the thick layer of dust on their clothes, talked in a boisterous manner, eyes looking manic when encircled with black rings of coal. A couple in fine clothes stepped into their awaiting coach, talking in hushed tones.

John looked back down to the open book he was supposed to be analyzing, reading over the same page for the fifth time. His room was dimly lit by a few candles that quietly whispered and crackled in the silence. The dark atmosphere gave him a feeling of restless exhaustion and he could not focus on The Financial Stances of A Successful Man (a gift from his father).

It was to his great relief that there was a quiet knock to his door, breaking him out of his monotonous stupor. 

He cleared his throat and saved his page, turning towards the door. "Come in." 

One of the small servant girls from downstairs pushed the door open nervously, peeking inside and stammering, "Master Laurens? Your father requests your presence in his study." 

John was taken aback, standing hastily. He was rarely ever summoned to his father's study (not that he wanted to be in there anyway). His father considered it the most sacred of places and did not tolerate his children "dirtying up the place." They were forbidden from entering unless told otherwise. 

Starting towards the door, John felt a stone of dread drop heavily into his stomach. What could he have done to cause his busy father to interrupt his important schedule to talk to him? 

He ran his hand through his hair, making sure he was presentable before nodding to the servant girl (her name was Margaret) and telling her she could go. She gave a small curtsy and hustled down the hallway.

He straightened his jacket as he briskly made his way down the hall towards his father's study, desperately thinking of possible excuses to get out of the mess he'd probably made. The study's door was slightly ajar and already John could smell the expensive whiskey his father kept near the fireplace and the old books that lined the walls. He took a deep breath before steeling himself, knocking sharply.

"John? Come in, son," Henry Laurens' gruff voice said through the thick door. John took a small step inside, poking his head in timidly. 

Henry Laurens sat behind his broad desk, scratching out something on a small pad of paper. He didn't bother glancing up at his son, simply gesturing with his free hand towards one of the plush chairs sat across from him. John sat obediently, anxiously twiddling his thumbs as he waited for his father to finish writing.

After thirty terse seconds, Henry Laurens looked up at his son with a hint of a smile along his lips. 

An anvil was lifted from John's shoulders. A smile was an indicator of a peaceful conversation. He hadn't made an unintended mistake. 

As quickly as Henry Laurens flashed his smile it was gone, replaced by the business frown he tended to wear more often than not. He scrutinized his son for a moment before sniffing indignantly. "What were you just doing?" 

"Reading the book you gave me last week, sir." 

Henry nodded and stood, his chair skidding back and screeching along the floorboards. He rounded his desk and picked up a stack of papers on his way. He looked at them for a moment before leaning over and dropping them into John's lap. 

John's brow furrowed as he looked down at the newspaper he was given. "Go on, read it out loud," Henry said calmly, pulling out a cigar and sticking it in his mouth

John unfolded the paper and recognized his father's face along with Charles Lee, a close friend of his father's and a wealthy entrepreneur that lived just down their block, in a picture for the editorial underneath the newspaper's name and heading.

"The Crack In The Bell, June 15, 1853," John gave his father a bemused look, "This is from five months ago." 

Henry gestured for him to continue reading, lighting his cigar and taking in a lungful. He breathed out a cloud of smoke and John was reminded of the fog drifting around the city's dark corners. He willed himself not to cough.

John cleared his throat and looked back to the paper, reading the glaring headline.

"Bosses Beating Their Way To The Top." He looked back at his father before continuing once again, "New York's finest men are still continuing to climb the social and financial ladder at the expense of others' well being. Henry Laurens of Laurens Steel Co. and Charles Lee of Lee Iron and Coal Co. are the two leading masters in iron and steel production in New York and they're at the top of their game. Yet everyday their workers are starved and beaten, forced to work more than the promised hours and they're pay is lower than what is told to the general public. A young man by the name of Marcus Jordan lost an arm in a piece of large machinery just three weeks ago and did not receive compensation. His father, that in whom he worked alongside, was struggling to pay for a single meal for the both of them on the measly salary. Just to pile on the agony, Marcus was given the choice of starvation or more work and, sadly, he had to continue his labor at the factory one-handed. He constantly comes home everyday with bruises-" John was interrupted by his father making a disgruntled noise and taking in another drag of his cigar.

"It goes on like that for the rest of the damn article and multiple others, slandering the Laurens! It's balderdash!" Henry ripped the newspaper from his son's hands and crumpled it in a shaking fist. "This discourteous paper has been belittling my-our-name since the beginning of the year and my patience has been stripped thin. What if people start believing this shit? I'll-we'll-be ruined." His voice raised to a shout and he took his cigar from his mouth, taking a moment to compose himself.

He turned the paper back to John, pointing at the small print at the bottom of the article: Written by Phillip Revolt.

"This man has been causing me grief and I want to put an end to it," Henry growled, glaring at the paper. 

"I understand why you are upset, father, but what does this have to do with me?" John asked, at a loss. It was not as if a snide newspaper remark was out of the ordinary. The freedom of speech in the country was something many people took advantage of.

Henry shoved his cigar back into his mouth for another puff, looking at his son with an unreadable expression before going over to his whiskey tray, opening the bottle. "I want you to track down this Phillip Revolt and end this-this Crack In The Bell or whatever." He poured the whiskey into a glass, downing it in one gulp. John could see the fine lines of age spreading from his father's eyes and the corners of his lips, his face worn down from stress.

He figured that this wasn't the best time to tell his father that the article had quite a bit of truth to it. John had visited the boy, Marcus, who had lost his arm. He was no older than fifteen with sunken eyes that cried every time he looked at his barren left side. John had given him and his father the money he had been saving to use when he finally found a girl to take on a date. Mr. Jordan had thanked him profusely, so much so that John felt embarrassed for the man. How little must that small family have if a few dollars was the greatest gift? 

John once traveled down to the factory when he was younger out of curiosity, escaping his tutor easily and skipping through the street, stopping at the open back door of the factory. Two men were smoking and leaning against the building, eyeing him as he walked in. The sound was deafening, metal grinding and men groaning and even some children wailing. He slipped by some men covered in sweat and grime hauling bundles of metal behind them, exhaustion obvious in their movement. He stopped behind some equipment and watched as one of the deans screamed at a wiry man. The dean's hand connected with the man's face and the worker crumpled, apparently not having the energy to get back up. The dean spat on the man and ordered him back to work, walking away. John had hurried back out of the door he'd come, tears streaming down his face. He hadn't been back since, much to his father's chagrin. 

"Are you listening, boy?" Henry sneered, pouring himself another glass. John was shaken from his depressing reverie to Henry repeating himself. "I want you to find this Phillip Revolt and set him straight with a warning. If he can't get his damn act together I'll rough him up." He took another shot.

John shivered. That wasn't the first time his father had said he would "rough someone up." That last "someone" was found dead on the bank of the Allegheny River after missing for two weeks. His father seldom lost in his small battles. John certainly did not condone this way of winning in the industrial wars that his father got himself into but there wasn't much John could do to stop him.

Henry looked at his son and leaned against the front of his desk, examining his shot glass. "John, I hate to get you involved in this mess, but you're the smartest young man I know and none of the men I've sent out to find this prick could catch him." He looked up and made intense eye contact with John. "Can I count on you to not only protect this company, which will one day be yours, but your family name?" 

John desperately wanted to say 'hell no, father' and run out of there. He'd even admit that he'd rather read the boring book his father had given him...but one cannot refuse such a request from their father, could they? He had to protect his family name, as corrupted as it was.

"Yes, sir."


	2. Adam's Firearms Company

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 3 Things:  
> 1) I will let you now that there is going to be google translated French in this story. If that bothers you, I apologize, but I don't know or speak French.  
> 2) 19th Century slang is amazing and if you don't understand them I'll offer definitions  
> 3) Alex has a habit of talking in exclamation points all the time and it's infectious

"Excuse me, ma'am. Pardon me. Sorry. Excuse me." He felt his elbow connect with someone's spine as he pushed his way along the bustling sidewalk and winced in sympathy.

"Hey, watch it, kid!" 

Alexander didn't bother turning to apologize, attempting to keep his books from falling to the ground. The fog and smoke from the factories made halos around the citizens of New York City, snow like fairy dust as it swirled around merrily. Feeling flakes on his eyelashes he pulled his scarf higher over his nose, trying to blink them away. 

He almost missed his designated stop, pausing in front of a bakery as he pulled himself from his mind. Men shoved him out of their way, grumbling expletives behind their hastily wrapped cigars. 

He cleared his throat as he turned, rubbing at his nose and trying not to slip as he clobbered up the slippery stone steps. He gripped the iron knocker and shivered as a chill traveled through his body. Damn gloves were too thin for this weather. He'd have to save up for another pair. Lifting the knocker and letting it fall back against the door he stood back, rocking back onto his heels as he waited.

Minutes went by and he let the knocker fall again, this time shouting, "Gilbert! Open the door!" His toe tapped impatiently. He breathed into his free hand to try regain some kind of feeling. Gilbert seemed to believe people worked around his agenda and not their own.

Alexander gripped the knocker once again and was yanked forward when the door swung inwards, Gilbert du Motier Marquis de Lafayette looking surprised as Alexander fell to his floor in a heap. "Alexander? Are you alright?" 

"Just spectacular," Alexander surmised through gritted teeth. Pushing himself from the floor he felt Gilbert close the door behind him to cut off the bitter cold.

Gilbert took Alex's coat from him as he stood, hanging it on a hook beside the door. "You are early, mon ami. I was not expecting you for another hour." Really? Alexander looked at the clock standing in the entrance hallway and, yes, Gilbert was right. Perhaps it was Alexander who expected everyone to carve time out for him.

Well, there was no matter wasting time dwelling on that.

Alexander shrugged and let himself into the sitting room, sighing in pleasure as the heaters warmed his toes and fingers. If he weren't here on business he could see himself succumbing to slumber in Gilbert's plush armchair. 

"Plans change and so does the codfish aristocracy, Lafayette." Alexander sat down and leaned forward over the coffee table, pulling off his carrier bag and setting it down. He unbuttoned the flap and searched through the papers scattered around haphazardly. Gilbert sat to his left, elbows on his knees as he attempted to see what Alexander was doing. 

He was dressed in casual wear, his shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows and his pants wrinkled. Alexander figured he must not have anywhere to go later that day. Gilbert typically dressed like he had money...and he did. Have a lot of money, that is.

"What is it this time?"

"I was recently informed by a reliable source-"

"Eliza visited you and you did not tell me? Shame on you, Hamilton." 

"Hush, Gilbert, let me finish. Anyways, my reliable source was explaining that Mr. John Adams of the Adams' Firearms Company was acting unnaturally chirk while visiting said source's father's home. Apparently the old coot is going to exfluncticate the firearms industry! He's looking to build a monopoly!" 

There was a quiet moment as Gilbert processed what Alexander has said. The wind could be heard beating against the house, whistling down the chimney in shaky whispers. Alexander shivered at the phantom chill. 

Finally, Gilbert sighed, seemingly lost in thought before looking at Alexander and shaking his head, "I am sorry, I do not understand why that is particularly bad? What do you mean 'monopoly'?" 

Alexander groaned and stood up, hands waving around sporadically. "Don't you see, Lafayette? He's wanting to run every other firearms industry, no matter how large, into the damn ground! He's aiming to go full chisel with this idea which means hell for the other firearm businesses in New York!"

Gilbert shushed him, holding up his hands with a placating air about him, "Alright, alright I understand. I am guessing you are wanting to print this soon?"

"Of course! This is important! If we print this it'll be like greased lightning amongst the lower working class. We can't let him continue to honey-fuggle the public." 

Gilbert smiles, leaning back into the sofa, his right ankle on his left knee. "I see. Have you made Hercules aware?" 

Alexander shook his head, "I haven't been to see him yet. I plan to visit him tomorrow." 

Gilbert nodded and opened his mouth to add something but was interrupted when Alexander's stomach decided to make itself known. Alexander's face flushed as he glared down at his midsection with betrayal. Damn it. 

Gilbert shook his head, pushing himself up from his seat, "When was the last time you ate, Hamilton?" 

Alexander grumbled something about Monday and Gilbert sighed, "It is Wednesday evening, my friend. You must eat! You cannot write if you are malnourished and starving. I am guessing you haven't slept since then, hmm?" 

"A few glasses of horn are keeping me going just fine," Alexander quietly protested, following Gilbert into the kitchen. Gilbert's house maid, Marianna, bowed her head in acknowledgement to Alexander from where she wiped down the counters.

"Marianna! I believe I told you that you are allowed a break," Gilbert chuckled, raising an eyebrow. Marianna nodded and curtsied, a small smile on her old face. "Ah, yes. I apologize, sir. I simply meant to finish-" 

Gilbert cut her off with a wave, "I will get it. Go rest, I will handle things." Marianna gave him a thankful look before nodding once more and leaving the room.

"Oh mon Dieu, that woman works too hard," Gilbert shook his head and pulled the lid off of a pot sitting upon the stove. Alexander leaned against a counter, looking up at the high ceiling. He couldn't imagine what he would do if he had the money that Gilbert possessed. Perhaps he'd buy his own printing press instead of needing to use his friend's, purchase a home with appropriate heating and not rely on Mr. Washington to provide him funds to keep him off of the streets. He supposed there were two types of immigrants: those of renown with money to dish and those missing in monetary action. 

Gilbert's voice pulled him from his thoughts.

"I hope you like potato soup, mon petit lion. I made it earlier for lunch." 

"Why do you insist on calling me that, Gil?" 

Gilbert turned to look at him, mischief painted along his elegant features, "Because you are small and feisty. It fits you perfectly, if I do say so myself."

~~~

Alexander did, indeed, like potato soup. He attempted to control himself not to bring the bowl to his lips and slurp the rest of it. He didn't believe Gilbert would appreciate that.

Gilbert smirked at him, leaning back in his chair. The Lafayette dining room was too elegant for Alexander to be completely comfortable, no matter how many times he had sat there for dinner.

"How is Washington?" Gilbert inquired, picking up his cup and drinking his specially-imported tea. Alexander looked up from his bowl for a moment before shrugging, looking down at his spoon.

"He's been quite peart, actually. The library is getting a good bit of attention. More work for me, I suppose." 

"Ah, but more work is more money, no?" Gilbert winked and took another sip. Alexander laughed, rolling his eyes.

"Speaking of work, how are the rest of your prints selling?" 

Gilbert waved his hand dismissively, "They are going well, I suppose. Your papers sell the best amongst the lower class, of course, so it is the most popular." He finished his tea, "The Daily Chatter sells a good amount as well as The Gotham Inquirer." 

Alexander nodded and hummed around his spoon. He supposed he wouldn't listen to Gilbert's chastisement about daily nourishment if he was offered delicacies such as Lafayette Potato Soup to make up for forgotten meals.

Wiping his mouth after his last bite, Alexander pushed away his bowl, "What do you say to a trip to the rum-hole on South? We haven't gone drinking in a fortnight." Gilbert pursed his lips, raising an eyebrow.

"If that is what you want to do you must do something with yourself. You look like you lost to someone's dirk."

Alexander laughed, "I'm not wanting to pick up a bed mate, Gil. I simply want to catch up with a friend." Gilbert looked at him, eyes squinted before sighing, resigned. He didn't believe Alexander, of course. It was understandable.

"Perhaps even Mulligan will want to tag along," Alexander continued, watching Gilbert stand and walk past him and back into the kitchen.

"Of course Mulligan will join. When has he ever turned down an invitation to drink?" 

Alexander nodded, "You have a point. Of course, you're not much better."

Gilbert's laugh could be heard from the kitchen and Alexander grinned, looking up at the shimmering chandelier that shifted candlelight around the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alrighty so now that I have the first chapter up I will attempt to update every Wednesday (when I have access to my computer, that is) and I will let ya'll know ahead of time if I'll be missing a posting date.
> 
> (oh and if there are mistakes in this chapter, sorry, I wrote this at midnight)


	3. The Publishing Marquis

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im so sorry the the business names are so basic wow
> 
> (not edited, heed this warning)

"Slow down, John! Do you want to choke?"

John looked up, his fork loaded with eggs halfway to his mouth. Lana, their cook, gave him a disgusted look, scoffing, "At least chew with your mouth closed, young man. You weren't raised with the shucks." 

"I'm a growing boy, Lana! I need my sustenance." John avowed, taking another bite (though admittedly slower). Lana rolled her eyes and whipped at him with a rolled up towel, making him hop off of his stool.

"You shouldn't be eatin' in here, you know," Lana turned her back to him, shoving her hands into the sudsy sink and scrubbing vigorously at a plate. John rolled his eyes, scooping the last bit into his mouth and putting his plate in Lana's already awaiting hand. 

"He isn't even in the house," John grumbled. Lana grunted in response and John grinned wickedly, leaning down and giving her a small kiss to her cheek. She waved him away, grumbling about rambunctious youngsters. 

Laughing as he was pushed out of the kitchen, John adjusted his shirt and attempted to wipe the grin from his face. Many of the younger house maids had a habit of flapping their lips too closely to his father's ears. Eating breakfast in the kitchen with Lana was an act his father frowned upon. John should not be interacting with the help. 

John could not care less what his father had to say on the company he kept.

He swiftly ascended the stairs to his bedroom. His father's book still sat untouched on his desk. It stared up at him as he passed by to sit on his bed and he glared back, trying to procrastinate the business he had to attend to.

Of course, one cannot keep something so important off for too long. After all, John was perhaps the only saving grace for Phillip Revolt from the wrath of Henry Laurens.

He grabbed the stack of papers his father had set on his bedside table the day before and took them to his desk, shoving the book into a drawer, never to be seen again.

He didn't bother opening his curtains, instead lighting a tall, thin candle to read by, knowing the clouds would block out any sun attempting to break through. November was one of the worst months in New York City. The smog seemed to solidify in the air as temperatures began to drop and oozed down your throat, making you cough until spring decided to come around (which wasn't until May, some years). A pang of pity shot through him as he acknowledged those who weren't as privileged as he was fortunate enough to be. He'd heard a few of his father's workers complain about the cold in the tenements they lived in, how it sinks into your bones and makes you forget what warmth even is.

It didn't take him long to notice that a majority of each paper was written in the same style as the article his father had shown him, most of it very opinionated and fairly malicious towards the New York upperclass. 

"On Wednesday, September 17, a few if the workers from Sendole Corp. were interviewed about the drastic rise in their working conditions under Mr. Adam Sendole. Many of our selected interviewees were hard to understand amidst their coughing and wheezing and were covered in coal dust from under their fingernails to ringed around their eyes. Of course, we were able to gain some inside information..." John pursed his lips and set the paper down, discomfort swirling like a dark cloud in his stomach. 

John knew many of the men presented in each article, biting his lip harder with each paper that won him over and made him agree. The writing was eccentric and rebellious with an air of petulance and John felt as though he knew exactly what the writer felt, what the writer saw, what the writer had to endure. It drew John in further and further until his light source flickered out, melted down to a waxy stub. 

Blinking tired eyes, he squinted up at the small clock ticking in front of him and groaned. He had read more than four hours worth of papers, more than he'd ever read before (but you couldn't blame him for that, with the reading material his father provided). He had not even looked for leads, nothing that could clue him into who could be behind the paper other than someone well-educated and active amongst the working class. 

He pulled his curtains open for the small bit of light they could provide and stood, stretching and popping the bones throughout his back. For once he was grateful for something his father had given him: comfortable chairs. 

He walked to his bed stand and grabbed another candle, lighting it quickly and sitting back down at his desk. He sighed, looking down at the mess he had created and pulling out a pen, adamant about finding something, anything that could help him save someone's life.

~~~

"Aha!" He exclaimed, looking down at the bottom right hand corner of the last page of one of the papers. "The Publishing Marquis," he mumbled, tearing off the corner and bringing it closer to his candle. Much to his chagrin there was no address that he could find, no indicator as to where he could find this place. It was a start.

He stood and stretched, grabbing the torn piece and pulling on his jacket. If it was a publishing company it had to have more than one newspaper He'd simply have to ask around, gain information, fish for clues.

He started towards the door but stopped in front of the mirror in front of his bed, taking in his appearance. The Crack In The Bell was obviously a newspaper aimed towards the working lower class and, though not hard to believe, they probably did not like to entrust information to those higher than them, to those who have more power. 

And, to gain the common people's trust, he had to become one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comments are so greatly appreciated guys i seek validation
> 
> i'm always willingly to chat on my tumblr: notfancyorfine


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